The Fall Is My Own, Dear
by Sherlock Holmes of 221B
Summary: Part three of the Plan and Fall series! Sequel to IOU a Recovery, Sherlock, which is a sequel to Moriarty's Plan. After John tells Sherlock what has become of Moriarty, Sherlock forces him away, along with his brother. Soon, he finds himself engulfed in a case that distracts him efficiently: That of Charles Augustus Magnussen. How will this play out? T for future events.
1. Prologue

The Fall Is My Own, Dear

Prologue

_***Heeeeeeeere it is! The much anticipated third part of the Plan and Fall series. In other words, it is the sequel to IOU A Recovery, Sherlock, which is the sequel to Moriarty's Plan. I've been putting it off, but I have finally decided upon where I am going to take this series. If all goes according to plan, this will be the last in the series. I do not own Sherlock. Sherlock is property of the BBC. Do not steal. Follow, favorite, and review.***_

"Why didn't you tell me this?!" Sherlock hissed, standing up and balling his hands into fists. "What, did you think I wouldn't have found out? Did you think I would try to stop you? You and Mycroft took every precaution to make sure I couldn't! But you didn't tell me." He took a deep breath, and went eerily calm. "Get out."

"W-what?" John asked, confused.

"Get. Out." Sherlock repeated. "You don't even live here anymore, and I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. So leave. I can't trust you with anything. My husband... dead. Dead and gone. The only person who was my intellectual equal, and you killed him. I want you gone, and I want it now. Leave, or I shall quickly show you the way out in a brusque and very not-gentle manner."

John looked down, feeling guilty, but thought it best not to argue. He walked out, closing the door behind him, and set out for his own flat, leaving Sherlock behind.

* * *

Sherlock knocked everything roughly off of the coffeetable, struggling to get a cap on his anger. They had not asked him before they killed Jim, and they had not told him until it was too late. No matter what Jim had done to him, he had always treated him with respect. He got him the best possible violin, and an expensive suit. Only the best.

James Moriarty had been the only man, save his brother, that could ever match Sherlock intellectually. For that, Sherlock always believed that the man deserved respect, in addition to fear from others. Everything he had done was not easy, yet he held on, and made it what it was. And now, it would come toppling down, that _lifetime _of work. All because Sherlock had revealed them.

His phone rang, shaking him from his grief-induced stupor. He answered it without even checking the number. "What do you want? I've only just gotten home."

"I need to talk to you, Sherlock." came Mycroft's voice.

"Go to hell, Mycroft. John told me what you did. You had no right to do that."

"He kidnapped a very important person to London and caused severe damage to property, as well as taking several people's lives. So don't tell me I didn't have the right to do it, brother mine. Another opportunity would not have arisen."

"You could have let him go. He could have been _valuable _to you."

"It would have been too much of a risk."

Sherlock scoffed, and hung up immediately. He wasn't in the mood for Mycroft's drivel. He refused to answer when his phone rang again.

Downstairs he heard the door open, and he frowned. A suited man, within a few moments, was standing at the door. Obviously one of Mycroft's men, active on the job, with a single cat and two children, but no wife.

"What does he say?" Sherlock asked.

"He would like to say that if anyone comes to you for a case having to do with a man by the name 'Charles Augustus Magnussen', you are not to take it. If you do, you will face consequences at his hand. That is all." the man said in a deep voice.

"Tell him that he does not tell me which cases I can and can't take." Sherlock said, and pushed him out, making sure to lock and bolt the door behind him. The man made no attempt to re-enter.


	2. Chapter 1

The Fall Is My Own, Dear

Chapter 1

_***Yessss! Here's chapter one, you lot. I know you're simply going to love this series, based on the response. As always, if you have not already, read Moriarty's Plan and I Owe You a Recovery, Sherlock before you read this, otherwise nothing will make sense. Keep on guard, I'm a feisty writer. ;) I do not own Sherlock. Sherlock is property of the BBC. Do not steal. Follow, favorite, and review. Thank you.***_

For a day, Sherlock did absolutely nothing. He was grief stricken. He honestly believed that he had felt for Jim, and lamented his loss, anguished. He did not eat, and the time he spent not sleeping he spent playing his old, lackluster violin. How he yearned for the one his husband had gotten him. His anguish translated into the music, a melody he composed that was flooded with sadness, audible with every stroke of his bow, every shift of his fingers. His old eccentricity was absent at the moment. He was normal, only then - a talented musician translating his losses into his music. He could've rivaled old classical composers if he had the drive to.

The second day after his return, boxes and boxes found their way to Baker Street. Upon calling Mycroft, he had been told that he inherited everything Moriarty had owned, save the criminal empire, which would probably like nothing more than to tear him apart for past interferences and bringing ruin on them now. After all, if Sherlock hadn't gotten Moriarty found, they'd both still be alive now. He murmured in Celtic as he went through boxes of possessions that had been Moriarty's, strictly. He was a mess like he hadn't been since Redbeard. This always happened - whenever he put his heart out in any semblance of the open, it was crushed to pieces, which was why he usually guarded what was left of it, heavily. He was closer to tears than he had in so long. Because this, this was nothing like anything he'd had before - the promise of a stable, happy life with a man he could actually feel for.

He pulled out last the Stradivarius as though his life depended on its condition, like it was his lifeline. It was his greatest connection to Jim, now, the best of what he had left of him. That, and the memories. He didn't tend to dwell on them, but they were fresh in his mind, which was in a muddled haze; so much so, that he almost didn't hear the door open and steps coming toward him. By the time he heard them, Mycroft was standing in his living room. Sherlock stiffened, but said nothing.

"John had no say in the matter, Sherlock. Don't blame him for it." Mycroft said, leaning on his umbrella.

"John didn't try to stop you either. What, are you two afraid he forced me into a relationship with him? For being 'the smart one', you really can be ignorant and idiotic sometimes, _brother mine_. Even before he and I were on friendly terms, he had _class_. He never touched me. He didn't even have someone else shoot me; he had me jump off a building so that it would not be _he _that actually physically killed me. He was polite, all murderous threats aside. And you killed him! You idiot!" Sherlock replied, boiling, and then stormed off to his room.

"Sherlock, he had you taken to Ireland when you were comatose. How classy do you think that is?" Mycroft asked, following him to the door.

"He didn't hurt me, not once. He went about as normal, except I was there." Sherlock replied.

"That does not change what he did. I know that you would be lying if you said that you didn't protest his keeping you there. Sherlock... We need to talk about this."

"You already know everything, though, don't you? Even though it took so long for you to find me."

"Not everything, no. I was alarmingly out of touch with happenings there in Ireland. I've no idea what went on when you were first brought here."

Sherlock was actually surprised by that fact. "How could you have not known, Mycroft? It is your job to know."

"Well, as odd as it may seem, I have no jurisdiction over the activities over other countries and, most particularly, their surveillance. There's nothing I could have done to find you when Ireland's surveillance was extremely unhelpful in the way of looking for you." Mycroft replied coolly, sarcastically. "So, I don't know any of what happened before I actually did manage to find you."

"That's unlike you, Mycroft. Why did you not look there before now?"

"Why would I have? We had no idea where you'd gone, who had taken you, or how it occurred."

"What, you didn't think it was Moriarty? You think that a dead man can just up and disappear? Because I know that the body was never found."

"To counter your question, why would Moriarty have his snipers continue to carry out his orders if he was dead? Do you honestly think that if they would carry out their orders even though they had the option, then, not to, that they wouldn't make sure that his body was never, ever found? Even if he's alive now, it had to have been pre-planned, his death. It was perfectly reasonable to believe."

"And yet, you ended up being wrong. Since when do you ever admit to being wrong, Mycroft? At the expense of your infallible reputation, you're trying to defend an opinion that everyone believed?"

Mycroft did not answer that, but instead, changed the subject. "It's about time you moved on, Sherlock."

"I'm not moving on, Mycroft. Clearly, you've no idea what it is to love."

"Don't be so cheesy, Sherlock. You were not in love, you were suffering from Stockholm Syndrome."

"You have no evidence to support that claim. Who's to say I wasn't free to leave whenever I wanted?"

"You and I both know you weren't, Sherlock."

"I could have been."

"He kidnapped you."

"He wanted me out of the way in light of his plans for London."

"Do you mean to tell me that you were free to go the whole time, then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Well, no, but you can't just assume things like that with Ji- Moriarty."

"He could have been torturing you." Mycroft said, and his voice softened a bit. "Have you any idea how worried I was? You could have been dead. Tortured. I had no way of knowing."

"Since when are you one for sentiment?"

"Since you got kidnapped and came back like a lovesick puppy."

"Odd metaphor for you to use, Mycroft."

"But it's completely suiting. Tell me, have you even _tried _to reincorporate into life? I know for a fact that you haven't. You've been moping about, clinging to anything you can that reminds you of him."

That caused Sherlock to blush, just a little. It was entirely true. "You know what? Fine. Stop chewing me out and get me a case."

Mycroft paused. "Scotland Yard, in your absence, was told you were dead. Reincorporating you into their infrastructure will take a bit of time."

"Then don't chew me out for not doing anything!" Sherlock exclaimed, and plopped down on his bed, disengaging from the conversation. With a sigh, Mycroft walked away, out to a waiting car, and away from 221B.


End file.
